


i'll write a hymn again

by calcelmo



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22218100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calcelmo/pseuds/calcelmo
Summary: But Geralt hadn't been fair, either.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 205





	i'll write a hymn again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pasdecoeur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasdecoeur/gifts).



> dedicated to the author of the first witcher fanfic i ever read (earlier today) who seems really cool! 
> 
> here is their fic  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/22214935
> 
> shout out to iven for hyping me up as always xxx
> 
> title from "in the morning ill be better" by tennis 
> 
> ive never watched the show, read the books, or played the game.....

No one could say he didn't try.

He knew it was unfair, of course. It wouldn't be fair to any unsuspecting room-mate, let alone one who could smell his arousal and hear his racing heartbeat, the quiet sound of skin on skin, relieving the pressure in his cock.

But Geralt hadn't been fair, either. _Geralt_ had been a complete bastard, and they'd barely spoken after the things he'd snarled in his childish rage. Jaskier simmered quietly in his hurt and fury, gripping the reins so tightly his knuckles turned white. He couldn't even bring himself to sing.

When they got to the tavern, soaked in rain, Jaskier walked straight up the stairs and let the witcher deal with renting the room. He was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. He wanted to bathe, but he only had the energy to unlace his boots, shrug off his cloak, and fall onto the bed.

The room was dark. He tried to settle down to sleep, but his mind was clouded with too much pain to offer him any peace. Soon enough, his ears picked up Geralt's near silent footsteps, and he heard the other man begin to undress before sliding into his own bed.

Jaskier let his sadness wash over him. He cursed himself for allowing himself to foster this kind of attachment. He was doing the right thing, standing by Geralt, no matter how much the fucker tried to convince him otherwise. But falling in love, disappearing every few days to fuck frantically into his fist just to alleviate some of his desperate craving for Geralt's touch- those were never part of the plan.

He felt foolish.

When he fumbled to unlace his breeches, it was almost out of spite. His cock was soft, partly because it was freezing fucking cold and he should have stripped off his damp underclothes, except he'd wanted to avoid the vulnerability of being naked while he was this pissed off.

He'd held back from doing this for so, so long.

He brushed his dick with shaking fingers, wincing slightly at the cold touch. Soon, he warmed up. He swallowed dryly and nervously, and it sounded loud in the silence, as he worked his hardening cock in his grip.

"Jaskier," said Geralt, into the quiet. There was a hoarse quality to his voice, tainted with this strange, fascinating fear.

The bard didn't respond, out of sheer pettiness.

He closed his eyes and let out a ragged exhale. It felt good. It felt good to finally get a hand on himself after weeks of sparing Geralt the awkwardness, out of respect, and shame. The witcher already fixed him with an unreadable stare after he sheepishly returned from a new whore's bed; imagining Geralt's disgust to hear him pleasuring himself was too much.

Was.

Right now, he found he couldn't give less of a shit what Geralt thought, or what made him uncomfortable. He was so pent-up with frustration and anger and sexual desire, it was understandable that he'd need release it. The fact that he was pissed at the witcher, and wanted him to know it, couldn't be less relevant.

He thought about trying to punch Geralt, and almost recoiled at the thought of hurting him. He wasn't really a violent man, and he knew he'd be stopped dead in his tracks with just one hand before he could even try. He never _really_ wanted to hurt him. 

He thought about kissing Geralt. Grabbing him by his shirt, tangling his fingers in his long hair and kissing him hard till their lips bruised.

"Jaskier," Geralt said again. He sounded pained.

"Leave me alone," Jaskier snapped childishly. He didn't stop touching himself; he couldn't. He shifted to lie on his back, eyes wide open now, biting his lip to keep quiet. He quickened his pace in jerking his cock, indulging in all the fantasies he'd kept hidden under lock and key.

"I can't listen to this," Geralt hissed. "This is a cruel and unusual punishment, bard."

"So fuck off somewhere else," Jaskier told him, almost hysterically. His heart was racing. Geralt would be able to hear.

Let him.

The realisation that he wasn't going to be able to come like this crashed down on him. He was too sensitive, too torn up inside to reach any kind of completion.

He let out an animalistic sound of frustration, bordering on a sob, and threw himself onto his side, giving up.

Fuck all of this. Fuck trying to pretend he wasn't in love. Geralt could find another bard, there was no living like this.

A small part of him wished he could cry. Geralt wasn't a monster, he might even gather him up in his arms and stroke his hair, tell him he was sorry. Or he might storm out into the night without a word, never to return.

Jaskier was too tired to cry. He had to accept this was the way things were. Find himself a woman.

"I want to help," Geralt said, way closer than he had been before.

Jaskier nearly screamed. Geralt's bulk pressed up against his back, and a calloused hand came to rest questioningly on his lower stomach, inches away from where he really wanted it.

"Does it hurt?" Geralt whispered. It was almost pleading- like if Jaskier said yes, that would make it okay.

His dick didn't fucking hurt. The suggestion was laughable. Jaskier wasn't going to die of blue balls; human biology dictated that no one ever hurt from craving sex.

But he said, "Yes", because he wanted Geralt to touch him. Because he hurt inside. Because he thought he was going to die if he never got to have this. He was so past coherency, all he could think about was relief.

Geralt's hand closed mercifully quickly and tightly around Jaskier's cock. It was clinical. Silent. And it was over embarrassingly quickly.

It was perhaps the closest thing to an apology he could hope for. 


End file.
